


Northern Lights

by LovelySilverwood (Eanna23je)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arya Stark-centric, Blind Character, Blindness, F/M, Jon Snow Knows Something, POV Arya Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 09:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22313998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eanna23je/pseuds/LovelySilverwood
Summary: An accident, while she’s away at her prestigious Braavosi school, leaves Arya blind and left to the care of her cousin, Jon Snow. She is angry and her world is black, but when he touches her she swears she can see again...For Jonrya Week 2020's Day 3 Prompt: Touch
Relationships: Jon Snow/Arya Stark
Comments: 22
Kudos: 95
Collections: Jonrya Week: January 2020





	Northern Lights

**Author's Note:**

> “Living is Easy with Eyes Closed.”  
> ― John Lennon

Blackness. Emptiness.

Her speed and agility had been based upon her ability to almost foresee her opponent’s next move.

Now there was nothing but darkness. All her dreams— _nothing_.

It had barely taken a second, a shift to the right instead of the left, the graze of the blade slicing her face, followed by fiery pain. And then nothing but screams and blood and darkness.

Arya reached to itch at the bandage wrapped around her head and ignored the roar of the plane engine as they took off from Braavos International.

A warm, calloused hand wrapped around her wrist. His voice whispered in her ear, “Don’t do that, cousin. You remember what the doctor said.”

She sucked in a breath, overwhelmed by the scent of the forest and spices surrounding Jon Snow. Her wrist burned beneath his touch and she fought back a tremble while savoring the sense of peace he always brought her. Since the accident at what would be her last fencing tournament, Arya had been overwhelmed by her loss of sight. Yet she’d never expected how heightened her _other_ senses would become, or how much _he_ could affect her.

In the days following her accident, Arya had numbly laid in her hospital bed, surrounded by her remaining family. 

Until Jon came for her.

His palm slid against hers, his long fingers threading with hers and resettled on her thigh. “All right?” His lips brushed her ear this time. He’d let his beard grow out again.

Arya forced a breathy laugh—nearly choked on it—as she turned in Jon’s direction. “How fucking long do I have to wear this thing?” 

Jon's seat creaked as he gently rested his forehead against hers and sighed—his breath a blend of sweet mint and coffee. Heat poured from his body, through the bandages at her head, and his fingers wrapped with hers at her thigh. For a moment, the blackness tinted a deep bloody red and her heart nearly stopped.

She wanted to push him away. _Make him hurt_ , as he’d once hurt Arya by running away. 

But she couldn’t hurt him. Not when he was bringing color into her life. Not when he was the only reason she was _trying_.

Jon didn’t speak but he didn’t have to. He already knew, didn’t he?

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Arya had left Winterfell three years prior on a fencing scholarship to the University of Braavos. Or so everyone believed. No one suspected the real reason she ran as far and fast from home as she possibly could. No one would have understood, and the only person she might have told had already left her. 

Having him near again was both her salvation and the cruelest form of torture. Painful as it was to be near Jon, she had nothing without him.

The life Arya had tried to build after leaving home was gone. And if she’d gone home, who the hell would have been around to care?

Catelyn couldn’t see past caring for Bran and Rickon. Sansa had thrown herself into her marriage, and Robb… 

Robb hadn’t deserved to get shot while trying to save someone’s life in the line of duty. 

_My brave, stupid big brother…_

The first dark days after her accident, Arya had listened to their whispers around her hospital bed, when they’d thought her asleep. Beneath all her bandages, how could they have known?

 _“...must go back soon. Bran could have another one of his episodes any minute I’m gone,”_ Catelyn had said.

 _“Don’t look at_ me _, Mother. You know Harrold wants to try again. We’re still refurbishing the Eyrie and couldn’t possibly…”_

No one wanted her anymore.

No one had protested when Jon appeared, like a damned hero in a song, bringing reason and madness back into Arya’s life. The cousin everyone hated but for her. The only man she’d ever loved, and this her family never knew, not even Jon. 

No one had protested when Jon declared, _“She’s coming home with me.”_

Jon kept one arm securely about Arya’s shoulders as they walked through the airport. No one dared bump into them with Jon at her side. 

His legs were much longer than hers, but she never felt rushed. She never tripped like she had when Mother or Sansa had tried walking rounds with her at the hospital. And he never said anything, never slipped over, _“Arya, look at this… oh, sorry, I meant…”_

“Almost there.” Jon’s calm voice reached through the cobwebs of memories and pulled her to the present.

Arya breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth as the entrance doors to Moletown Airport _swished_ open. A blast of true winter winds struck her face. Arya gasped at the sting, the nearly forgotten sensation before a startled laugh escaped her.

She could _feel_ Jon’s gaze focus on her then.

Arya’s grip tightened on her carry-on bag to avoid touching his lips, no matter how much she longed to feel if he, too, was smiling. 

Her grin twisted into a grimace as Jon led her into the parking garage and to his truck.

He guided her fingers to the handle so she could open the door herself, then stepped back while Arya climbed inside. Only after all her limbs were tucked inside did Jon close the door after her.

Beneath her bandages, fresh tears stung her wounded cheeks.

 _Fuck_.

He couldn’t do things like this for her—make her believe she was somewhat independent. She would never drive a car again. She’d never fence or finish her degree at Uni. She’d never see Jon Snow’s smile…

Jon turned on his stereo not long after he’d cranked the heat and drove them past the border of Moletown.

A song by his favorite band was already cued up, “Winter Roses” by _Counting Ravens._

_Oh, gods..._

Arya pressed her hand to the passenger window and faced the world she could not see. As discreetly as she could manage, she used her sleeve to wipe her cheeks and hoped the dressings would soak up the bloody rest.

“I know you’re sick of sitting for so long,” Jon interrupted what Arya once thought of as _their_ song to say. 

“It’s fine,” she was quick to reply. 

For an awful minute, only the chords of the guitar and the soft rhythmic _swish_ of the wipers filled the silence. 

“It’s about an hour’s drive to my cabin from here,” he tried again. “Want anything to nibble on before we pass the last waystation?” 

“I’m _fine_.” Arya dug her blunt nails into already ravaged palms. She was losing her fencing callouses already, after only a month…

Jon caught her hand in his and tugged until Arya's hip dug into the center console instead of her window.

“Gods, Jon, _what…_ ”

“I’m _here_ , Arya. I am right here and I’m never leaving you. Not ever again. I’ll swear to whatever gods you want me to. I’ll swear to _you_ , so long as you don’t shut me out.”

She chewed on her lower lip and tried to pull her hand away in vain. They’d never really talked about this, about why he'd left at the beginning of Arya’s final year in secondary school. There had been no note, no bloody conversation. He’d simply _left._

The next holiday when he came to visit, Arya had spent every second she could at her friend Hot Pie’s house. Anything to avoid being in the same room as him. Anything to avoid the sadness in Jon Snow’s gaze.

“Why are you bringing this up _now_?”

Jon’s grip tightened. “I swear to you, Arya, I’m not letting you fade away like you want to.” His voice cracked and he shifted in his seat. She could hear the uneven rise and fall of his chest as he battled for composure. 

The song changed to a different band— _Dark Wings,_ another one of their favorites—when it suddenly clicked. This was the playlist she’d made for him that weekend they’d snuck out and gone to see _Counting Ravens_ in concert. After the concert, they’d fallen asleep in a hotel room at Harrenhal, half-drunk and tangled up in the bedsheets half-naked. It had been innocent—for Jon at least. It had been the best night of Arya’s life.

 _Gods_ , Mother and Father had been furious after, going so far as to ground Arya for a month. Jon never said what his punishment had been. 

_But that was the same season he left for the Wall Academy._

Arya didn’t speak and barely breathed the rest of the ride to her new home.

Neither did Jon.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Their boots crunched through thick snow on the short trek from the truck to Jon’s cabin. The rest of the ride had been tense and Arya had nearly cracked three times to demand he explain _what happened_. 

All awkwardness and tears were forgotten the moment the pure clean scent of snow and evergreen forest surrounded them.

She caught traces of Jon’s scent beside her, his hand her only source of warmth as they rounded a corner. 

A howl in the near distance made Arya jump and Jon chuckle. He released her hand to wrap an arm around her waist as she listened to the near-gallop of paws ahead. 

Arya’s breath quickened as she heard the second set of softer steps follow the first set. 

“Ghost! Nymeria, I told you both I’d be back with your mum soon,” Jon coaxed as two direwolves pushed their noses into Jon and Arya’s faces. 

She was determined not to cry _again_. But then Jon brought her hand to rest at Nymeria’s flank with a whispered, “she’s missed you almost as much as I have.” 

Arya threw her arms around the wolf she’d left behind at Winterfell, her mind reeling.

_How did he do it?_

Nymeria held still and leaned into Arya’s embrace.

“You haven’t forgotten me, girl? I’m sorry—so sorry I left,” she sobbed into her wolf’s bristly fur. 

“Nymeria, lead Arya to the house. Ghost, to me,” Jon spoke in that soft, low tone of his. 

Their footsteps disappeared until it was only Arya and Nymeria and soft waves of snow coating them. 

Arya hitched a breath as she clung to her wolf and released a heavy sigh. 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Jon’s cabin was two-storied. The bottom floor dug beneath the earth, was made up of Jon’s bedroom, closet and master bathroom. The large floor above ground housed a spacious living area with a fireplace built at its apex. The kitchen was on the opposite side from the entrance, next to another bathroom, and Jon’s studio. 

_His studio,_ she marveled when he’d first explained the scents of paints and turpentine and countless other art supplies. Jon was a bloody professional artist and she’d never even known he could draw. 

“I thought you wanted to serve beyond the Wall,” she said as her fingers danced over paintbrushes and a barely damp canvas.

Jon remained silent so long she would have thought he’d left the room but for his ragged breathing. “It was never my choice to serve at the Wall, Arya.”

She ducked her head and felt an echo of her oldest and deepest internal wound over the loss of him. The same empty gutting feeling that he was gone and what’s worse, had left her behind. She’d had nightmares about his leaving, even three years after.

_But he’s right there, stupid, just like he said._

So Arya turned in the direction of the sound of his breathing and tried to smile. “Show me my room?” she asked, reaching for him.

Jon didn’t hesitate to take her hand and lead her from his workspace. “Aye, about that. I hope you don’t mind if we—” his voice trailed off.

“What is it?” Arya's other hand mapped their route, grazing over furniture and kitchen counters. 

Jon twisted a doorknob and murmured, “Staircase. I just had the railing installed.” 

Her hand glided along the railing as he led her to the floor below. “Spit it out already. What’s wrong with my room?”

Jon twisted slightly away once they reached the bottom floor landing. “I only have one bedroom, Arya.”

She froze, a flush of heat traveling from their joined hands up her arm and through her chest before settling hotly between her legs. That same red tint filled the blackness again. 

_Oh gods, get a grip on yourself. He’s not suggesting you share a bed...is he?_

Arya lifted a hand but she hadn’t realized she’d turned to him until her free hand struck his abdomen. “Shit, sorry,” she muttered.

Jon's breathless chuckle fell over her forehead as he caught her hand and pressed her palm to his heart.

She could hear his smile in his voice as he replied, “You can touch me whenever you want, love.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

There was only one bed. 

In the beginning, Jon offered to sleep on the couch upstairs. 

“Don’t you dare leave me down here alone, Jon Snow,” Arya had argued.

Now she reconsidered the wisdom in allowing him to lay so close—too close—his breath faintly fanning her cheeks in the dark. 

She could only hope it was truly dark for him as well. She didn’t want Jon to notice the way she drew in deeper breaths until nothing but his scent surrounded her. Or the way her skin pinked every time her toes brushed his legs beneath the sheets.

For a time, there was only the rhythm of their heartbeats and the wind beating against the roof high above them.

 _“It was never my choice to serve at the Wall…”_ he’d said. 

So why had he stayed so far North after his contract ended?

_You know why, stupid._

No, she really didn’t. Worse was she’d wondered, for longer than she dared to admit, how much of everything had been her fault. Had he known how she felt or was it something else?

Jon turned to face her in the dark, his steady breathing interrupted by a heavy sigh. “What is it?”

Arya clenched the sheets between them as the edge of his hand grazed hers. “Why did you really leave me?”

Jon flinched but did not pull away. “Catelyn didn’t give me much of a choice.”

Arya sat up, fury pushing past her renewed dose of painkillers. “I knew it! I _knew_ it was my fault. After the concert, you never told me what your punishment was. I should have fucking _known_. And I never bothered to _ask_ you? Gods, Jon, I’m so, _so_ sorry...”

His arm wrapped around her shoulders, drawing her gently into his embrace with soothing words she didn’t deserve. “It wasn’t your fault, love, it was _mine_. You were so young, Arya—too young. I was in the wrong… I didn’t want...” A strangled laugh vibrated in his chest, against her ear as he brought her to lay back in the bed against him. “Gods, I’m rubbish at this.”

Arya used the bedsheet to wipe her smiling cheeks and wondered when she’d stop crying in front of Jon. She’d turned into a ruddy sap ever since he’d come back into her life. She had been so empty and angry after the accident, long before that if she were being truly honest. And now he was _here_ with her, just as he’d promised. 

“I wanted to tell you so many times…” Jon finally confessed in that low, gentle tone he reserved just for her.

Arya’s breath hitched in her throat as he adjusted his hold of her until he could face her in the dark once more.

Fire followed in the wake of his fingertips tracing the angle of her jaw, the bow of her lips and lingering.

“Jon,” she gasped. 

“Arya,” he breathed, his lips brushing against hers.

And then he was kissing her. 

The world beyond her shattered vision exploded with colors she’d never seen before. 

It lasted but a moment, a firm but yielding press of his mouth against hers. The exchange of breath and the taste of his tongue carefully tracing hers before he slowly pulled away.

His heart raced beneath her palm, in time with the pounding thud of the pulse in her ears. She could taste him still, on the tip of her tongue, and gods but she wanted more of this, of him. 

The colors were already fading behind her closed lids, leaving her reeling with the overwhelming sensations of _feeling_. 

Neither spoke, in affirmation or protest and Arya was grateful. She didn’t think she could stand the sound of his voice right now. 

They fell asleep on opposite corners of the bed, ignoring the need for touch, afraid of wanting too much.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

That first night was the hardest but not the worst by far. The worst was somehow waking up in his arms. 

His embrace tightened and then his lips brushed against the crown of her head before he slipped away with a “Good morning, love.” 

Just like that, they found a new routine. 

Jon never helped her out of bed or led her around the cabin after that first evening. 

Arya learned through touch and sound and feel. She learned the bathroom was exactly twenty-three steps from her side of the bed. Her toothbrush was always kept in the stand on the right-hand side of the sink. 

Her clothes took up the left side of their shared wardrobe. She tried not to think too much about the fact Jon had gone through her smallclothes, or that he changed each morning and evening only ten steps away from her. No matter how much the sound of fabric brushing against his legs and arms drove her mad. 

Jon was still as fit as he’d been the last time they’d both been in Winterfell together. She felt his strength in the way he lifted her up onto his horse’s back the days she wanted to ride. And wasn’t that the worst torture of them all? The press of his hard chest against her back and his hands at her waist as she led by the reins. His breath hot against her neck as he told her when to bank left or right, and when to turn back. 

The house was easiest to learn, though Arya loved the studio best. She would linger there while Jon worked, listening to the sound of brushstrokes and the scents that followed. He would let her choose the music and she would spend hours cataloging different mediums and paints. 

“What’s this painting of?” she would ask him after running careful hands over the grooves left from dried oils. 

“The godswood,” he’d reply. It was always some variation of Winterfell.

Everything he painted and drew for himself that wasn't commissioned had a similar theme. There was the concert at Harrenhal or the ruined tower they’d played in as children. Here was a crown of winter roses, or their direwolves.

Jon painted the same way he'd taught her forms with a sword when they were young. But the further back she went in his collection, the heavier and more violent his strokes.

A heaviness and darkness she called him out on another day. “You were angry when you painted these?"

Jon’s movements paused on the far corner of the room, close to where sunlight poured through the glass-paned windows. “Yes.” 

After a little while, he stopped answering truthfully. 

She knew from the hitch in his breath and the sudden increase in his heartbeat. 

So she stopped asking directly and used her fingers as a guide. Swirls and careful brush strokes near the center. Faces? One face. And again, on another canvas.

Arya turned to the direction of his voice. “Have you ever painted me?”

He didn’t reply, and of course, he didn’t need to.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

After this, Arya took more time for herself. She hated that Jon couldn’t let her be outside alone, any more than she could argue with his reasoning. 

“The woods are not safe, love,” he claimed. 

“So let Nymeria and Ghost be my guides,” she argued. 

Jon relented, but only because she'd begun to withdraw once more.

She needed time...space.

He hadn’t tried to kiss her since that first night and she didn’t trust herself near him now that she knew—what, exactly?

_He kissed you. He painted you. He came for you. He lo—_

He did not touch her so much as he had in the beginning. She didn’t want him to, did she?

 _You shouldn’t depend on him so damned much_. _Show him you won’t be a burden._

Her bandages could come off. Arya had been counting the days. Thirty-six since her accident; thirty since her final eye surgery; twenty-nine since Jon came for her. But when the time came, she couldn’t do it. 

_Weak. Worthless. What is the point when you won’t see anything anyway?_

She sat against the weirwood opposite the barn and their home and ran her hands repeatedly over the eyes in the tree.

“Please, let me see,” she whispered to gods of her father.

Gods, what would Ned Stark have thought of her, of _them_? Surely this hadn’t been what her father imagined for either of them when he finally succumbed to his cancer the year after she left for Braavos? 

A wet nose brushed against her neck. Jon’s direwolf was quieter than Nymeria. 

Arya didn’t hesitate to bury her face in Ghost’s fur. She could almost imagine the way his fur gleamed in the fading light. Were his eyes as red as in her memory? She could almost picture the exact shade as Ghost curled around her, a warm protective shield against the cold and her memories.

“I know it’s stupid,” she whispered. “I know what the maester said, but I swear I’ve been seeing _colors_ since Jon kidnapped me from that damned hospital.” 

Snow brushed her bare hand. She should have worn gloves, but it seemed to make little difference these days. She was always cold. Some days she wondered if she hadn't died that day, and come back a shell of what she'd been.

Arya sighed. “Gods, I miss holding a sword in my hands. Don’t suppose you could help me with that, could you, boy?”

Ghost chuffed and Arya chuckled, some of her despair fading with the setting sun.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

She woke to find Jon’s side of the bed empty for the first time since her arrival. He always waited for her each morning. But the bed wasn’t exactly empty as Arya had expected. 

Her hand brushed over something thin and cold, sharp. Her breath caught on the inhale and then she was lifting Needle by the hilt. 

“I thought you might want to try something different today.” His voice came from the bathroom door. Had he been watching all along?

Her eyes burned from hot tears. Arya dropped Needle and scrambled to pull the bandages from her head before rising from bed to face Jon. 

“Arya?” He closed the distance between them, hands running along her forearms. 

“Just stop!” Arya shoved him away as she untied the last layer and threw it aside. She opened her eyes and out of the blackness, she could have sworn she saw his form outlined in cool silver. 

Tears fell faster now. She couldn’t see, and she couldn’t be sure if the colors she saw around Jon were in her mind or not.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” she managed between sobs. 

He didn’t answer, so she hit his chest again, hard enough to hurt this time. Still, he didn’t move and she cried, “Why in seven hells would you do this to me? You—you know how much fencing meant to me! Gods, I never thought you could be this cruel!” 

“Arya, I wasn’t trying to taunt you with something you couldn’t have,” he began.

“Could have fooled me,” she hissed back.

The tension between them thickened with the very thing they’d done their best to avoid since her first night. 

Jon’s breath hitched and then he snapped. “You are _not_ helpless, or worthless, Arya Stark! You lost your sight, not your life. You have never backed down from anything in your life. You wanted to ride again, and so we have. And if you want to practice bloody forms with the sword I made for you, then you fucking will!”

She grasped her hair with both hands to keep from reaching for him. “I never wanted to touch another sword, you arsehole!”

“That’s a lie,” he growled, suddenly much closer than he had been. 

“How would you know? It’s been five _years_ since you left, Jon! I’m not the stupid little girl who fell in love with you anymore, I’m…” 

His lips on hers cut off anything else she might have said. He grasped her by the waist and drew ever nearer, breaking the kiss long enough to say, “You forget I _know_ you, Arya. I know you’re still in love with me… as I love you.”

Arya dug her hands into his surprisingly soft curls and pulled his mouth back to hers.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

She couldn’t see the Northern Lights as he could.

She’d never know how she looked to Jon the day before, besides the weirwood half covered in snow and Ghost, with the lights shimmering overhead. Or how his fingers had immediately itched to paint the scene, how his pencil had flown over the page desperate to immortalize it— _her_. He'd been drawing her for years. His sketchbook was partly why Catelyn was adamant Ned force him into Wall Academy. He had been helpless in his love as much as the fact Arya had and always would be his muse. 

She couldn’t understand the fury and despair he’d felt over the years. No other woman’s embrace had been enough to blot out her memory. Nothing had come close to comparing to the way he felt the first and last time they lay half-naked together in a hotel bed at Harrenhal. She'd been drunk, Jon barely buzzed. He had wanted to remember everything about that night, every stolen forbidden moment. He’d known the risk of immortalizing those stolen moments. He'd more than paid the price.

After word of her accident reached him, Jon took the first flight out of Mole Town to Braavos. A few well-placed threats to her _family_ , should they try to interfere, and Catelyn had severed all ties with her daughter. Jon had no pity or compassion for the Starks anymore. Especially not when he found Arya in a hospital bed, bandaged, shrunken and empty of feeling and life. 

Jon could admit, to himself at least, that he’d used any and every excuse to touch her from the moment she reached for him in that hospital bed and held him with her trembling arms. 

She couldn’t know how much it meant to hear her laugh again, to feel her fingers squeeze his back, to unwittingly reveal how he still affected her with every blush. He’d known how she felt for longer than he was comfortable admitting. Still, it had never felt wrong with her, not like it should have. And now there was no one to protest the bastard of Winterfell from kissing their wayward princess. 

The milky white of her unseeing eyes looked even more beautiful to him than they had silver-gray. She'd never regain her sight, but Jon looked into her eyes as he claimed her cool lips again and again.

He drank her in, unable to quench his thirst. Not when he’d been starving for her touch for so long. 

She’d been crying just the day before because she longed to see, to feel a blade in her hand again. Could she truly hate him for wanting to give her everything he possibly could and more? 

Jon wasn’t sure if he could ever make up for the ways he’d failed her, but he was damned determined to try.

He’d spend a lifetime and more until she could smile and laugh freely again. As long as she would allow him _this_ , to love and touch her freely— _finally_. 

“I’ll never love another as I love you, Jon,” she whispered to him much later.

Jon gently kissed each of her closed eyelids and cradled her naked form securely against him. In the dark together, they smiled as they drifted into wolf dreams.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It was a quiet life, this close to the Wall.

Between rare visits to Moletown and beyond the Wall for different supplies, they lived in near solitude.

Some might say living in the wild was too dangerous. For Jon and Arya Snow, it was freedom.

By day, Jon would paint and sometimes even coax Arya to pose. One day, he gave Arya an easel and canvas and paints and watched her paint with her delicate fingertips. They often painted together after this, when they didn't end up painting each other.

Arya practiced her forms until she was almost better without her eyesight. In time, her senses developed so she could hold her own against Jon.

With Ghost and Nymeria by her side, Arya learned the forest surrounding their cabin. She didn’t seem to mind when Jon felt the need to follow them. It wasn’t always to protect her. Often times he carried a sketchbook to jot little moments down.

When she’d catch him—increasingly often to his chagrin—she made Jon describe everything he saw. And she would try to explain the way his touch made her see colors. 

On the days when Winter was deepest and darkest, Arya memorized Jon by touch beside the fire, in his studio, or in their bed. Every caress, every kiss, and touch brought color back into her life, or so she swore to Jon.

They learned one another’s quirks and newer idiosyncrasies and no matter how often they argued, they did everything together.

It was more than enough for both of them.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading Northern Lights! After witing a heavy fic for Jonrya Week's "darkness" prompt, I wanted to let our fav's heal. This is very much a hurt/comfort modern AU where hopefully our fav pair find a measure of peace. I left some aspects of this AU vague on purpose, but I hope you all enjoyed :D Virtual hugs to all you lovely Jonrya fam. You're a fantastic bunch! See you at the next fic. If you'd like to chat about the story or our mutual love of Jonrya, feel free to comment below!


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